


Redeuntem || Countryhumans

by OOFOOFx3



Category: CountryHumans
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Murder, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, there's other characters i just cant find them in the tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 12,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27199505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OOFOOFx3/pseuds/OOFOOFx3
Summary: Things are tense between the countries when the deceased return from the dead for a weekend.
Relationships: Germany/Poland (Anthropomorphic)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 50





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally posted to my wattpad. enjoy. or don't, i guess.

"You are God's mistake."

"Yeah, yeah... We get it, Mex. I'm a stupid gringo and I deserve to 'pack my butthole full of gunpowder and squat over a flame'," America rolls his eyes, swinging his arms back behind his head as he props his feet on the table in front of him.

Canada wheezes, hunching over and slamming his face into the wooden table. Tears well up in his eyes as he cracks up.

"America, feet off the table," Britain taps his son on the shoulder. America groans before setting his feet back where they belong.

"Does anyone know if Greece is coming? I heard he got sick," France pipes up from beside Britain. She looks around the room for an answer, only to receive shrugs and confused murmurs.

"I hope he's coming..." Germany grumbles, dragging his index finger idly up and down the table. His fingernail digs into the wood, leaving a faint mark.

Poland rests a calm hand on his boyfriend's shoulder. "I think it's best he doesn't show up. Patience, Niemcy."

Germany heaves a sigh before nodding. He turns to Russia, who's hardly spoken a word since he's entered the meeting room. "What's up with you? You're quiet today."

"Ukraine and I had a fight last night. I'm still pissed," Russia shrugged before taking a swig from his flask, presumably filled with vodka.

Belarus reaches for the flask once Russia sets it down again. "Okay, I think that's enough. Remember what Ukraine said—,"

Russia snarls, swatting his sister's hand and quickly shoving the flask back into his pocket. "Ukraine doesn't know what they're talking about!"

"Hey! Don't talk about them like that!" Canada butts in upon hearing his significant other's name. "They just want you to stop drinking so much!"

Russia's cold gaze snaps over to the Canadian. Canada swallows audibly, sitting back down and looking away like nothing happened.

"So..." Britain taps his watch. "We've got thirty minutes until we start. What's the schedule this time?"

"Well," Germany clears his throat, pulling out a sheet of paper from his breast pocket. "First, European Union, United Nations and ASEAN have some news. Then, I have an invention to show you. After that, Spain and Mex—,"

The door flies open, making a loud 'bang' and rattling wildly as it hits the wall. Ireland bursts into the room, followed by Scotland and Wales. Northern Ireland trudges behind, a bored expression present on his face.

"Top of the morning to ya' fockers!" Ireland screeches.

Northern Ireland grimaces and covers his ears, squeezing his eyes shut. "God, do ye ever shut up?"

Scotland punches Northern Ireland in the arm. "Hey! Be nice!"

"Hello to you, too," Britain says, as if they hadn't interrupted Germany and possibly broken the door. "We were just discussing the schedule for this month's meeting."

The British Isles hurry to take their seats beside each other. Wales and Scotland sit in between Ireland and Northern Ireland. Over the next couple of minutes, more countries filter in and sit down at the giant round table. European Union, United Nations and ASEAN are the last to arrive.

"Greetings, my fellow countries. I'm pleased to see most of you here," European Union says as he takes his place at the podium. United Nations and ASEAN stand next to him as they wait for their turns to speak.

European Union's gaze drags over the countries before him. Most immediately look away, as if to avoid looking into his dark, empty eyes. He clears his throat.

"First order of business, we have some updates for you all on the matters we discussed last month. Did I bring up Redeuntem last meeting?"

Britain suddenly groans and buries his head in his hands. "Is it really happening so soon?"

Several countries whip around to face the Brit. France's eyebrows knit together in concern as she places a hand delicately on her husband's shoulder.

"Whatever do you mean, mon amour?"

European Union clears his throat again to grab everyone's attention once more. He throws a glare at Britain (who then flushes red and cowers in his seat) before continuing. "I suppose I was too occupied to announce it last time. As Britain already knows, there's going to be a reunion soon. It'll be at Britain's place, like we already decided a few weeks ago."

It's everyone else's turn to groan. Reunions are always boring, especially when they're planned by the EU. The only one to remain silent is Britain, who is instead staring down at the table nervously.

"But this is no ordinary reunion!" United Nations suddenly butts in. European Union shoots him a dirty look, but steps away from the podium to let the other speak. "A few of you may recognize the name of this upcoming event: Redeuntem. It's Latin for "The Returning". We chose this name because it reflects the purpose of the reunion."

"And what would that be?" America says boredly.

"Countries are returning from the afterlife!" United Nations says with a grin, although it is clear he is not as confident as his expression says.

America suddenly jerks from his chair. He looks up at the other with wide eyes, his shades sliding down the bridge of his nose. "What?"

Bewildered chatter erupts from the seated countries. Like dissonance, it fills the room with incoherent murmurs of confusion and uncertainty. European Union scowls at United Nations for allowing such a thing to happen. Before European Union can step in to try to seize control of the situation, ASEAN finally speaks up.

"We have weeks to prepare for the reunion, so do not fret. I understand your concern. How can we accommodate so many countries in a single home? How long will it last? How ma—,"

"Will my father be there?"

Germany's voice startles everyone in the room. It takes a moment for the world to understand what the young country is asking, and when they get it, the tension in the air grows thick.

"I... Uhm..." ASEAN stammers. They turn to European Union, who's just as uncomfortable. Despite being visibly shaken, European Union takes the wheel.

"...Yes, Germany. Every country, living or dead, will be there."

Germany looks down at the table, his expression blank and face pale. Poland wraps an arm around his fiancé to comfort him, whispering something in his ear. Germany nods but doesn't look up again.

The air has somehow grown thicker with stress. You'd need a machete to make your way out the door. Countries exchange mixed glances at one another, too apprehensive to say anything meaningful.

"But..." European Union takes a deep breath, like he's struggling to keep his composure. "But please, nobody worry. We have a plan if something goes awry."

"This is a recipe for disaster," America grits his teeth. He throws his hands in the air. "You're setting up for war!"

Several countries gasp and Britain gets to his feet.

"United States of America! Never, under any circumstance, should you ever speak about war in such a way! How dare you talk about disaster so nonchalantly? I be—,"

"Sit down!" European Union barks. His voice cuts through the room like a knife through butter. Britain, shocked out of his skin, immediately plops back into his chair with shame.

The European Union eyes flicker over all of the countries before he speaks again, this time more calmly. "Like I said earlier, the situation is under our control. Although we cannot prevent specific countries from arriving, we can watch them closely to prevent any... Mishaps."

Ukraine wrings their hands anxiously as they dare question European Union. "Is that really going to do anything? I think America could be right... This is a terrible idea. Not only will the Axis be back from the dead, but so will other various countries who have conflict with others."

Many stiffen at the mention of the Axis, especially Germany. Germany practically sinks into his seat upon the mention of his father's infamous group of friends. Poland reaches out for him again, only for the German to shake his head.

European Union nods at Ukraine. "I understand where you're coming from when you say that. But must I mention the reunion will be over the span of a single weekend, instead of the usual week reunions normally last? Only so much can happen over the span of 48 hours. Once the clock strikes midnight, the deceased countries will be back on their way to whatever afterlife they came from."

Russia, who's been mostly silent this entire time, suddenly gets to his feet and walks out the meeting room. Belarus stands to go after him, but Kazakhstan tugs on her arm to discourage her from going after him.

"Leave him be. You guys should talk later," He says quietly, although most countries can still hear him through the silence of the room.

Belarus takes a deep breath before shaking her head. She gently unwraps Kazakhstan's fingers from around her arm. "I'm sorry, but I need to go. I'll be back. Fill me in on the meeting tonight at dinner."

With that, Belarus smiles at European Union apologetically before scurrying after Russia. The door shuts behind her with a soft click.

"Well, now that we've announced Redeuntem, do you have any questions? Comments? Concerns?" European Union says after a brief moment of silence.

Everyone is quiet. It's clear there's many questions and concerns among them, but nobody says a thing. They've begun to accept there's no way around this reunion, "Redeuntem".

"Great!" European Union claps his hands together. He smiles, revealing his set of unnaturally bright white teeth. "On with the meeting, then!"


	2. A Nervous Brit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Britain is nervous for what's to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> penis

"Are you sure it will turn out okay, France?" Britain says, adjusting his tie for the seventh time in the past thirty minutes. He turns to his wife, who was setting out the last of the dishes and cutlery. Her dark, silky hair is pulled back into a bun, held together tightly between the teeth of a large hair clip. She works her way quickly across the kitchen to meet her husband at the counter. 

"I'm afraid I don't know," France shakes her head. She realizes the plate she just set out was dirty and swaps it for a clean one.

No amount of time could help anyone mentally prepare for the stress of hosting a weekend-long reunion with all the countries. Britain was often asked to help organize world meetings, but this one was different. Nobody was coming to discuss politics or how to achieve world peace. Everyone was coming. Including the deceased countries.

This didn't seem like a big deal at surface level, but once you take a second to think about the often complicated relationships between the countries, you just might realize how disastrous this could turn out. Many of the dead countries were rather _disliked_ by others.

Of course, it wasn't all bad. Families would be reunited. Relationships could be mended. Old friends would see each other once again. But the pressure of keeping everyone calm and peaceful throughout the weekend was almost too much for Britain to handle.

"Britain, I think it's best we don't overthink it. Even if it goes awry, only so much damage can be done in two days," France says, looking up to face her husband again. She smiles reassuringly, revealing perfect, pearly white teeth. "...And most of these countries have been gone a long time. Perhaps they've changed a bit? You need to have more faith in others."

Britain heaves a sigh. "I hope so."

The two countries look up as a loud ring sounded through the large house.

"I'll get it!" Britain scrambles to the door. He swings it open to reveal Ireland. For a moment, he considered shutting the door, but he remembers if he wants to survive the weekend, he'll have to to learn how to get along.

Ireland flashes him a grin, though Britain could sense how forced his grin was. "Hey! Been awhile, hasn't it?"

Britain steps aside to let the other country into the house. "...It has. Aren't your brothers coming?"

Ireland nods. "Yeah. They're a bit behind, cause we didn't take the car and they're slow walkers."

The short man pauses in the hallway, taking in the surroundings of the huge dining hall.

"You've outdone yourself. The place looks nice."

Britain feels his muscles loosen and lungs deflate. "Thank you. You should tell that to France, though. She was a big help,"

"Pshh! Don't put the credit on me!" The French woman shouts from the kitchen. She shuffles out, carrying an armful of plates.

"Here, let me help you with that, ma'am," Ireland takes a step in her direction to assist her. Britain bites back a snarl.

France shakes her head. "I'm a strong, independent woman who can carry a stack of plates without a man's help."

"Pure well, then," Ireland backs away.

Britain turns to the door again as the doorbell went off a second time. "Your brothers?"

Ireland nods and peeks out the window. "Ayup."

Britain opens the door and the three men immediately rush inside, wheezing and panting.

"You left us behind, ye crease!" Scotland huffs, hunching over as he caught his breath.

Northern Ireland swings his fist, landing it in Ireland's shoulder. The younger man yelped. "I hate you, brah'der! You never listen."

Wales reaches his hand out as if to calm the others, already prepared for a fight. "Let's relax, alright?"

Britain rubs his gloved hands together. "Well, then! Have a seat, make yourself comfortable! We've got a few minutes until everyone else shows up!"

Over the next hour, more (living) countries flock in. Soon, the house bustles with chatter and nervous energy. While Britain prepares the last of the dishes, one of his sons enters the kitchen.

"This is a bad idea, Pops."

Britain turns around to face America, still stacking plates and sliding them over to France. "What makes you say that?"

America leans against the counter. "You're setting up for a third world war."

"It's not like I had a choice," Britain sighs. "EU, UN, and ASEAN have been planning this for years."

America gasps, slamming his hands on the counter, rattling the plates and cutlery. "You could've said no!"

"Do you know how I feel about EU?"

"That's stupid," The younger man spits. "Just because of Brexit, you decided to endanger the lives of everyone else?"

"This isn't about Brexit!"

America rolls his eyes. "Sure, Pops. Do you even have a plan for when things go south?"

Britain pauses. "I... I don't... Who said things would get to that point?"

"It's inevitable! You're putting enemies under the same roof!"

"We can make it work!" The Brit seethes at his son. He sets down the plate he was holding for fear of losing his temper and dropping it.

America shakes his head. "I'm just saying... This can only end in disaster,"

Britain sighs, waving his hand, as if to shoo America out of the kitchen. "Sure. If you're going to hang around in the kitchen, at least give your mother and I a hand".


	3. Dependency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poland depends on Germany a bit too much, and Russia does the same to Belarus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> h

"Niemcy, I can't go! I can't!"

"Poland."

Poland looks up at his lover with a look in his eyes that breaks Germany's heart.

"Nobody can hurt you. I won't let anything like that happen again."

"They'll be there!" Poland's fingers curl into Germany's shirt. His hands shake wildly, tugging the fabric as tears streamed down his face.

Germany rubs soothing circles into Poland's back. "Shhh... It'll be okay."

"They're gonna find me! And— And they're going to hang me! Or saw me into pieces!" Poland sobs uncontrollably.

"No. I won't let that happen. I'll stay by your side the entire weekend if I have to," Germany lifts Poland into his arms and carries him to the living room. He sets him on the couch, careful to be gentle with the panicked country. "I'll get you a glass of water."

Poland nods, wiping his blurry eyes.

Germany hurries into the kitchen and fills a glass with cool water. He rushes back to his boyfriend, who had curled up with his knees tucked into his chest. He tries to hand Poland the glass, but the man's hands are too shaky. Germany helps him guide the cup to his lips.

"There, there... Deep breaths. We'll get through this together."

Poland and Germany sit in silence for a few moments as Poland calmed himself.

"...Aren't you afraid to see your father?" Poland asks with uncertainty, looking Germany in the eyes.

"Terrified," Germany shifts his weight from his left to right side. "I... I'm more worried about what he'd think of us, though."

"Nobody should stop you from talking to him. And if his homophobic ass doesn't love you for who you are, then he's not worth your time," Poland stares into his eyes after studying his expression.

"If it makes you feel unsafe, please tell me," Germany returns his eye contact. "All that matters to me is that you feel safe."

Poland shakes his head at him. He raises a brow. "You deserve to be happy, too! I'm not going to sacrifice your well being just for myself!"

"Poland, I love you. I want to keep you happy,"

"Your happiness would make me happy," Poland smiles, taking Germany's hands in his.

_______________________

"Ukraine! For the last time, get the hell out of my way!"

Ukraine jumps out of their skin, scrambling out of the kitchen.

Russia slams the fridge door shut. "Who ate the rest of the mayonnaise? Kazakhstan!"

Belarus watches her brother march up the stairs, empty mayonnaise jar in hand. She flinches as he whips around to shoot her an angry look.

"What the hell is your problem?!"

The only times when Russia would behave like this was when he was drunk or troubled. Russia wasn't slurring his speech or walking with a limp, so it had to be the latter. After all, they all had a reason to be troubled tonight.

After nearly thirty human years* of being dead, the Soviet Union would reunite with his children for one weekend.

To most of his many children, this meant nothing. But to some, this was earth-shattering, especially to Russia. Russia had gotten depressed after the collapse and eventual death of the USSR, and Belarus was more than aware he was under an immeasurable amount of stress.

Belarus shuffles up the stairs and after her brother, taking the empty mayonnaise jar from his hands. "There's another jar in the back of the fridge."

Russia lets her take the jar. He slithers past her and enters the kitchen again, a sour look on his face. " _Where is it?"_ he asks in their mother tongue.

The younger sibling follows him. "In the back, like I said. Russia, I think—!"

"Shut the hell your mouth..." Russia hisses. He sticks a spoon inside the newfound jar of goodness and eats a mouthful.

Belarus fights the urge to gag. "Russia, please, listen to me..."

"Can't, sorry. I've got stuff to do..." Russia says, attempting to escape the kitchen before she could go after him again.

"Russia!"

The other Slav flips her the bird as he rushes up the stairs. Belarus sighs and trudges up the steps, following the older country to his room.

"What the hell do you want from me?" Russia snaps, setting the jar and spoon on his nightstand before he turns around to face Belarus.

Belarus steps into the bedroom cautiously, knowing Russia could be violent when provoked enough. "You look like you need to talk about your feelings."

"I absolutely do not," Russia spits, plopping onto the bed.

The Belarusian frowns. "Russ, it's okay. I want to help you. I know you're nervous about meeting Papa again."

Russia snorts and leans back in an attempt to hide the tears welling in his eyes. His voice cracks. "I'm more than nervous, Belarus. I'm heading for a breakdown."

Belarus blinks. She takes a seat next to her brother, careful to not upset him further. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"Not really, but I guess I should."

The young woman gave him a reassuring smile. "I'm here to listen. How do you feel about seeing Papa again?"

 _"I'm not ready. It doesn't matter that I've wanted to see him again for a long time. Now that it's happening, I don't think I can do it,"_ Russia speaks in his native language. He takes off his ushanka and fiddles with the red star on top.

 _"Why do you say that?"_ Belarus returns, secretly annoyed with the sudden change in language but still willing to help her brother.

"Do you think he's been watching from up there? Does he know what's been going on?"

Belarus shrugs, unable to offer him an answer. Now that Russia mentioned it, she begins to wonder, too.

"Would you feel better if he knew?"

Russia shakes his head, though he's unsure. "I don't think so. When he was around, it seemed like he was afraid I'd grow up to be like him. When he comes back and sees me following his footsteps, I don't know how he'll feel..."

It was true. Before his children were born, the Soviet Union was a raging alcoholic. When his first child was born, he realized he couldn't be the loving father he wanted to be if he continued drinking like he did.

"I think he'd beg you to get help, like we've been doing."

Russia wipes his eyes, sniffling. Belarus blinks in shock... Was he crying?

The sister cautiously wraps her arms around the crying country. Russia tenses, but accepts the embrace. They sit in silence in Russia's room for a few minutes longer. Eventually, Russia's sobs cease and he pulls himself out of Belarus's hold.

"Thank you."

Belarus smiles at her brother, giving him a playful punch to the shoulder. "You'll be okay, Russia. Hang in there."


	4. His Recent Self

Friendly conversation fills the jam-packed dining hall and the rest of the house. Countries laugh and joke, although you could sense the tension. None of the 'returning' countries have arrived yet and Britain begins to doubt whether or not they would show.

The idea was almost comforting, that none of the dead countries would show up, that everyone's jitters were over nothing. But that wasn't the case.

A loud ring pierces the air and everyone goes silent. All of the living countries are already in the house, so the country outside the door had to be returning. The world seems to hold its breath as Britain forces a calm walk to the door. His hand rests on the knob for a brief moment, uncertain. He swings the door open and braced himself for the worst.

The Roman Empire gives him a soft smile, entering the home gracefully.

"Pleased to meet you, good sir," Britain lets the man into the house, relieved.

"Père!"

The man tilts his head in confusion as a voice greets him. His confusion quickly dissipates when his children come rushing towards him. France is first to reach her father. Roman Empire engulfs the woman into a hug.

"You've grown so much!" The Roman Empire admires his daughter, his arms snaked around her waist as he spins her around.

France smiles at her father, tears welling in her eyes. Her siblings soon barrel after her.

Spain shakes his father's hand, meanwhile Portugal and Greece hug the Roman Empire from behind, forcing a yelp out of the old man.

The Roman Empire's gaze floats around the dining hall, visible confusion on his face. "Where is Italia?"

The siblings froze. Roman Empire raises a suspicious brow.

France stares down at her feet. "You mean Fascist Italy, Père. Italy is your grandson,"

"Fascist Italy is... " Spain trails off. He shifts his weight from left to right.

The Roman Empire nods. "...Very well, then. I'm excited to see him again,"

The siblings shoot each other worried expressions.

France swallows a lump in her throat. She gestures to Britain. "Père, there is somebody I'd like you to meet. This is Great Britain. He's the one who let you in.”

Britain shakes his trembling hand with the Roman Empire. "Please, just call me Britain."

Roman Empire blinks. "Is this your boyfriend?"

"Husband, actually," France corrects.

For a moment, it looks like Roman Empire is about to faint. "Pleased to meet you..."

Britain smiles nervously at the much older man before scrambling away as the doorbell rings again.

Roman Empire leans in close to his daughter, lowering his voice to a whisper. "He seems a little..."

"He's not usually like that. Everybody's on edge tonight, especially him,"

Roman Empire nods. "I can imagine. Tell me, France, how has life been treating you?"

_____________

Over the next few hours, the returning countries come rushing in. So far, nobody too problematic has arrived, which both relieves and worries Britain.

Britain now stands beside the door, prepared for when more guests arrive. Things are running smoothly, he thinks to himself, and he's slowly growing confident. The man exhales calmly, running his hands over his blazer as if to smooth out any wrinkles. The doorbell rings again and he lifts the curtains with his fingers, gazing out the window to see the next guest. He immediately shoots away from the door with a gasp before composing himself and swinging the door open.

"Japan! Hello!"

The Japanese woman entered the home, her hands clasped behind her back. She gives the shaking Britain a toothy half-grin. "A pleasure to meet you again," she chuckles.

Britain nods and forces a smile. He gestures to the dining hall filled with countries on his right. "Right this way, ma'am,"

The Japanese Empire slips into the dining hall, presumably to go search for her children, Japan and 1870.

Britain sighs in relief. Although some countries give her looks, nobody picked a fight. Hopefully America wouldn't find her soon.

The following guests were ones Britain hardly recognizes, but he's certain nobody would break out a fight with them. His nerves settle down from the Japanese Empire's arrival, and he was sure he was ready for anyone.

He wasn't ready for Reichtangle.


	5. Dependency 2

"He's here! My God, he's here!" Poland tugs on Germany's sleeve, frantically pointing to the tall, lanky figure ungracefully entering the home.

Germany looks up from his stein of beer, his eyes widening in shock. Poland was right. His father's alternate version enters the dining hall, his long, rectangular head sticking out of the crowd like a sore thumb.

"Poland, stay by me."

Poland nods, clutching onto the German's arm and pressing into his side.

Reichtangle weaves his way through the crowds of people, often receiving strange looks from the countries around him. It takes Germany a moment, but he soon realizes the tall alternate is heading for Poland.

"He's coming!" Poland squeaks, tugging on Germany's sleeve again.

Germany instinctively steps in front of Poland, taking a protective stance. "It's okay. Here, come with me."

Germany takes Poland's hand in his and suddenly plows his way through the dining hall, spouting apologies to the surrounding countries as he assists in Poland's escape. Soon Reichtangle is out of their sights and they're in the hallway leading to the bathrooms and other various facilities.

Poland grabs onto Germany, burying his face into the taller country's chest. His breath begins to hitch as sobs rack his body.

"Shh, baby. You're safe here. Nobody can touch you," Germany says, rubbing soothing circles into Poland's back.

"I don't want him to do that to me again!" Poland wails. He looks up at Germany with dull, glassy eyes filled with tears. "He's going to hurt me! He's going to come after me, and there's nothing I can do to stop him!"

Germany delicately places his hands on either side of Poland's face, gently wiping Poland's cheeks dry with his thumbs. "No, no. You can't be so sure of that. You're safe here."

Poland shakes his head vigorously, even more tears streaking his face. "I can't do it! I want to go home, Niemcy. He's going to corner me and—..."

Germany wraps his arms tight around his boyfriend. He holds the other close, letting Poland cling to him like the sky was falling. They stand like that for several moments longer.

_____________________

"It's been hours," Russia says, staring blankly into his now empty shot glass.

Belarus gives her brother a reassuring look. "He's coming, I promise. I bet it's a long trip."

Russia nods, but it's clear he's still doubtful. Thankfully, the doorbell rings again and Britain is quick to answer it. Belarus doesn't need to look for long to notice her father's tall figure standing in the doorway. Russia perks up upon hearing Soviet's thick Russian accent growing louder as the dead Slav enters the room with Britain.

Soviet's eyes scan the crowded dining hall for a couple of seconds before finally locking with Russia's. Russia freezes.

_"Russia?"_

Russia snaps out of his frozen state and scrambles to meet his father. They collide and envelope each other in a warm hug, gripping onto one another tightly. Before Russia realizes it, hot tears are coming down his face.

 _"Dad! Oh my God, I missed you so much. You have no idea how it's been since you left..."_ Russia's voice cracks pitifully part way through his Russian sentence, but he's too caught up in the moment to notice how pathetic he sounds.

Soviet just nods and smiles, pulling away from the hug to get a look at his now fully-grown son. _"_ Russia, how much you've grown. Your flag has changed, too! My son, he's an adult!"

It's Soviet's turn for his voice to crack. Russia looks up at his father in shock.

"Papa, are you crying?"

Soviet engulfs his son into another loving embrace. Russia's question is answered when Soviet suddenly lets out a sob.

"Please, don't cry!"

Soviet chuckles, tears still rushing down his red face. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hands in an attempt to appear more collected, but it doesn't do much. "I told myself I wouldn't cry..."

Russia laughs along, his voice coming out scratchy and rough through his tears. They maintain eye contact for a moment longer before Soviet's gaze suddenly tears away from Russia.

 _"Shit!"_ Soviet swears under his breath bitterly.

Russia whips around to find wherever Soviet is now staring. Standing by the door next to a very shaken Britain is a familiar face Russia never hoped to see again.

The Third Reich.


	6. A Glass of Water

Reich can't help but relish the way all the countries' eyes lock on him the moment he walks in. He had thought about it the entire ride here— a twelve hour trip from the afterlife, all of which was spent next to his excuse of a father, his shy brother and his grandfather he never met.

Prussia was a nuisance the entire time. At first, Reich was excited to finally meet his grandfather, but that excitement quickly evaporated the second he saw the older country's face. To put it bluntly, Prussia was arrogant and manipulative. Reich's family was notorious for being hateful, with the only exception being his son, Germany, but Prussia was beyond that. Prussia was unbearable to be around.

If Prussia was unbearable, then German Empire was absolutely insufferable.

Reich didn't have a nice childhood. It was something he preferred not to talk about, but it constantly haunted him every waking moment of his life. His father beat him bloody regularly, going out of his own way to take care of his older brother and to neglect Reich. Reich bore the scars of his childhood all over— mostly cigarette burn scars, concentrated on his arms and his stomach. During his younger years, German Empire would put out cigarettes on him. In a particularly nasty altercation with his father after Reich had been caught smoking, German Empire had snatched almost the entire box of forty or so cigarettes and tortured the skin of his belly with the lit ends.

Reich thankfully never had to see his father again after running away one night at dinner. He remembered that night like it happened yesterday: Sitting down to eat dinner with his family for the first time in forever. His brother telling their father he planned on attending a prestigious school. Reich confessing his passion for art. The crippling shame when German Empire lashed out and told him his paintings would never amount to anything. Running out the door and into the cold streets of Germany. Joining the German Army. Returning home years later upon finding out his father had died of a lung hemorrhage. Weimar inviting Reich to dinner, only for Reich to kill his brother that same night out of pure envy—...

No. Reich didn't want to be held accountable for his own actions. He refused to think about it.

Reich shivers, grabbing at the front of his jacket to pull it closer to his small frame. Beside him stands a very distressed Britain and the rest of the returning German family. Before him in the dining hall stands what had to be at least two hundred countries, all talking and eating and laughing. Soon, their laughter ceases as everyone's eyes eventually found the German family at the door.

Weimar Republic shifts his weight from right to left, visibly uncomfortable with the stares. Prussia pays no mind to the other countries, likely even enjoying the attention. German Empire's focus is on scanning the crowd for his old friends, Ottoman Empire and Kingdom of Bulgaria. Reich forces a stoic expression and entered the dining hall, taking pleasure in the way the sea of countries seems to part as he steps through, as if he were Moses himself standing before the Red Sea.

It feels nice to be powerful again.

_______________________

"I'm going to get something to drink, Niemcy. I'll be back!" The Polish man says quietly to his boyfriend before he exits the dining hall to enter the kitchen.

Germany nods, watching carefully as Poland leaves. To his disappointment, the dining hall is too densely packed for Germany to safely look after his love as the Pol moves further and further way, so he is eventually forced to give up with a sigh.

Poland enters the less crowded kitchen, relieved to escape the loud voices that filled the dining hall. His relief is quickly replaced with fear once he realizes: He's not alone in the kitchen. Standing in the far corner is the man he fears most.

Reichtangle.

Poland is quick to dart out the kitchen and into the long corridor he and Germany stood in a while ago. He forces himself not to panic, but with each passing moment, it gets harder to breathe. Just as Poland begins to think he may pass out, a hand yanks him by his arm and into a dimly lit room. The door slams behind him and Poland lets out a petrified shriek, only for another hand to be slapped over his mouth.

"Shhh!"

It's a voice Poland recognizes almost too well. His brain is suddenly caught between panicking even further or putting up a fight.

Soviet releases Poland from his iron grip. "I saw him coming down the hall after you. I wanted to help,"

Poland freezes. Why would Soviet, of all people, want to protect him from his abuser? Soviet was definitely not kind to Poland when back when he was alive.

"Hello? Did you hear me?" Soviet draws Poland out of his own head.

Poland shakes his head as if to dismiss his jumbled thoughts. "Uh... I'm sorry, no,"

The Russian man heaves a sigh, leaning against one of the walls of the small room they're crammed into. "I said I wanted to apologize for assisting Reich in your near death those many years ago. I know my apology likely means nothing you, but I just wanted you to know that I have absolutely no idea what I was thinking then. I was so much younger and gullible when I was with Reich,"

The air deflates from Poland's lungs. For the second time this evening, he thinks he's on the verge of falling unconscious.

"Sorry, was that too forward?" Soviet groans, slamming his hands into his own face, frustrated with himself. "I'm sorry. I just figured the reunion would be my chance to make amends with the people I've crossed. It's a stupid idea, I know—"

"It's not a stupid idea," Poland looks up at him and makes a mental note based off his observations: Soviet hasn't aged well. Despite not being a pile of ash anymore, his skin is still peeling, reminiscent of the way he died. His one eye is dull and practically drained of all life. His other eye is still covered with his hammer and sickle eye patch, hiding the empty socket beneath. Soviet doesn't have many wrinkles and his form is the way it was before he went on his deathbed, but his tiredness shows more than ever.

"That was quick," Soviet says, surprise seeping through the edges of his voice.

"I accept your apology," Poland says. For a moment, he feels uncertain but his fear soon ebbs away when Soviet smiles. It's a genuine smile, an expression one would never expect to appear on the face of such a villain. "But this doesn't change how I feel about you. You're still a monster."

To his surprise, Soviet doesn't appear hurt by that.

"I know."

It looks like Soviet has more to say, but Britain's voice sounds from the dining hall. Although his voice is muffled by the distance between him and the two Slavs, Poland can make out the words "dinner" and "dining hall". It's finally time for the reunion's first meal.

"I've gotta go," Poland says, turning the doorknob and preparing to swing open the door to leave.

"Wait, one last thing—"

Poland freezes. He turns to face the Russian again. "Yes?"

"I think you should know that... I'm ta—," Soviet hesitates and for a moment, his expression is entirely unreadable. "Never mind. I'll save that for later."

Poland gives Soviet a nod before slipping out of the small room. Soviet follows after him and they both take their seats in the dining hall, Soviet next to his children and Poland beside the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth.


	7. A Special Talk

The buzz of chatter and clinking dishes fill the dining hall upon the start of dinner. Many different accents and languages echo throughout the large space, forming an inharmonious concoction of voices.

On any other day, this would irritate Soviet beyond belief. But because tonight was so special, he couldn't care less. Soviet looks up from his plate to look over his children's faces again, all of which are so mature and grown up now, he can barely recognize the lot of them.

To his left, Belarus: His eldest daughter. Her flag was almost unchanged from the day Soviet left. Although she was already very mature for her age the last time he saw her, she was somehow even more beyond her years today.

Beside Belarus is Ukraine. He was always an effeminate boy, and based off Soviet's observations, that hasn't changed. A flower crown crafted out of yellow and orange chrysanthemums sits upon his head. His flag is no longer two red and blue horizontal stripes with a hammer and sickle off-center, but instead two plain light blue and yellow stripes.

Next is Kazakhstan, whose rectangular head probably takes up a fourth of his entire body weight. He's still quiet and keeps to himself, just like how Soviet remembers him.

Moldova and Latvia, both chatting excitedly, are seated across from him. They're as youthful and as beautiful as before, although a bit visibly unsure whether they should be interacting with Soviet or not. Georgia and Armenia are next to them, much quieter but still interacting with other countries.

Turkmenistan, Estonia, Lithuania, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, Azerbaijan, and Kyrgyzstan refuse to make eye contact with their adoptive father, and even though Soviet expected that before he arrived into the plane of the living, it still hurts.

At last, there's Russia. Soviet's eldest (and admittedly, favorite) child. Soviet is proud to see his first son all grown up and well, but he can't help but notice the red-stained bandages wrapped around Russia's forearms and a flask constantly being brought to Russia's lips, only to be quickly stashed away before anyone can say a word about it.

 _"What's in the flask?"_ Soviet points to the flask in Russia's hand as his son takes a swig from it.

Russia swiftly tucks the flask away again before wiping his mouth the back of his hand. Soviet wrinkles his nose as the smell of alcohol wafts over to his side of the large table.

 _"Water,"_ His son says nonchalantly.

Soviet knows for a fact his son isn't telling the truth, but he decides not to push it. He looks over at Belarus, who discreetly gestures to the kitchen. Soviet nods before excusing himself to enter the other room. Belarus soon follows after him.

He leans against the round edge of the counter, arms crossed against his chest as he looks at his daughter with concern. "He's not drinking water, is he?"

Belarus shakes her head solemnly. She swallows audibly before staring down at her feet. "No. Like always."

"Like always?" Soviet furrows his eyebrows. His gaze flickers between the doorway leading to the dining hall and his daughter's face. _"What do you mean?"_

The Belarusian woman answers Soviet with a question. "You saw his arms, Papa?"

Soviet nods and suddenly— It clicks.

_"How long has he been like this?"_

Soviet forces his voice to drop to an almost inaudible whisper. He does a good job hiding his panic, but Belarus can see the motivation behind this question. Soviet's scared— Russia has always been the spitting image of his father, both inside and out. Both were tall, stubborn and shared similar beliefs.

One of Soviet's methods of keeping his family safe was insuring none of his children grew up to be like him. Most of his kids hated him too much to be anything close to his character, so it was never a problem when they were all young. But Russia was always different. Russia was the reflection of Soviet. Where Soviet would go, so would Russia. If Russia said it, his father said it before, too. If Soviet did it, Russia would follow suit. That was what made Russia his favorite.

But it also meant Russia depended on the same things Soviet depended on before he married Afghanistan: alcohol and self-harm.

"Ukraine, Kazakhstan and I have been trying to watch after him since you left. Ukraine and Russia fight all the time about Russia's problems..." Belarus takes a breath and Soviet pities her. "Ukraine could tell you more about that. It's a touchy subject for them, though,"

"Them?" Soviet tilts his head, puzzled.

Belarus freezes. She smacks herself on the forehead lightly with her hand. "Oh! Yeah, uh... Ukraine's not male. Or female. They're agender."

"What?"

"Agender. They have no gender."

"Everyone has a gender," Soviet huffs.

"I'm not going to argue about this. You either refer to them with their preferred pronouns, or don't refer to them at all."

Still confused, Soviet decides to not press any further. He nods. "Okay, then... I'll talk to Russia later. Thank you for telling me,"

"Of course, Papa," Belarus smiles up at her father before quickly moving back to her seat.


	8. A Glass of Water 2

Unfortunately, Germany and Poland were seated far from one another at the dinner table. It didn't take long for Germany to figure out why.

Seats were assigned by which family you belonged to. Poland sat with his grandfather and father and Germany sat on the far side of the table, next to his own family.

Germany had only met one of his family members prior to Redeuntem: his father. He had heard stories about his infamous family, but never had he expected to meet them in the flesh. His grandfather, the German Empire, was a quiet and stoic man. The German Empire barely uttered a word throughout the meal, and when he did, it was to Germany's uncle, the Weimar Republic.

Germany knew next to nothing about the Weimar Republic. He knew his uncle had been tragically killed in an accident shortly after World War One, but that was it. Weimar was quiet, like Germany's grandfather, and kept to himself most of the time.

Prussia was much more talkative than the rest. He never seemed to stop running his mouth. The arrogant German liked being the center of attention, whether the spotlight was good or not. He was incredibly self-important and had absolutely no respect for others' feelings.

Last but most definitely not least, the only country Germany knew in his family, the Third Reich.

If Germany knew anything about his father, it was that it was almost impossible to scare him. Reich's determination only seemed to waver whenever confronted with his actions or when his own security was at risk. Never did Germany expect for Third Reich, a man who could kill another without so much as a flicker of remorse, to be afraid of his own father.

To be fair, the German Empire had a resting angry face and never seemed to stop glaring at Reich, but he didn't appear to be a genuine threat, at least not to Germany. The German Empire might've been intimidating, but he was nothing compared to the likes of the Third Reich.

"Fill my glass, Deutschland."

"...Yessir," Germany gingerly takes his father's empty cup of water into the kitchen, skittering off like lightning.

"You made your son refill your glass for you?"

Reich's gaze flickers to his brother, who had hardly spoken a word to him the entire evening. He frowns bitterly. _"What's the problem, Town Boy?"_

Weimar Republic gives him a look. German Empire answers for his favored son, glaring at Reich. _"I raised you better than that."_

 _"_ " _You didn't raise me at all!""_ Reich spits, accidentally dropping his fork onto his plate. The metal utensil clatters against the ceramic dish, earning the riled German a few looks from other families.

 _"Don't talk to Papa like that!"_ Weimar joins the erupting conflict, defending his father. _"It's not his fault you were so dysfunctional as a kid!"_

Reich extends a shaky index finger at his older brother. His other hand clenches into a fist at his side. _"You stay out of this! This isn't your problem!"_

The other dead German gets to his feet. "Is that so? _It became my problem when you killed me."_

The countries seated around them turn away, doing their best to ignore the two. The dining hall is painfully silent, with the exception of the fighting brothers. Reich stands up after his brother, having completely forgotten the original argument and swallowed in rage. He opens his mouth to retort something back, but he's quickly shoved back into his seat by his son.

"I got your water," Germany says, like he hadn't just prevented Reich from getting into a physical altercation with Weimar. He takes his seat next to his father.

Weimar huffs an exasperated sigh and sits back down.

Reich blinks. He settles into his chair, sinking into it with what looks like shame.


	9. Does Everyone Deserve Forgiveness?

Soviet looks at the cigarette held securely between his index and middle finger. A tiny orange-red dot sits on the lit end, where a fine wisp of smoke grows and disperses into the air around him. He brings the butt to his lips and inhales, drawing the foul-tasting smoke into his lungs before huffing it back out through his mouth.

If Soviet is going to get anything productive out of this reunion, it's going to be this. He's never been a merciful or forgiving person, but if he plays his cards right this weekend, he just might be able to mend some of the relationships he broke long ago.

So far, he'd had a talk with Poland and Britain. Britain and he were already on decent terms when Soviet passed, but he wanted to make sure nothing had changed between them since then. Surprisingly, Poland accepted Soviet's apology. There was a certain someone, however, who would be much more challenging to talk to— and he seriously doubted it would be worth the effort.

With a final huff, he grinds the butt of the cigarette against the sole of his boot, the remaining ash crumbling to the ground as the tiny flame dies. As he turns to go back inside, the door opens in front of him to reveal the face of the man he wasn't ready to see yet.

The Third Reich freezes in his tracks. His gaze flickers between his hand on the doorknob and the tall Russian on the porch.

Soviet is still, too. His cigarette butt falls from his fingers' grip and lands somewhere on the wooden deck below. He looks Reich up and down, his throat slowly drying up and his heart picking up speed. Without a word, Reich shuts the door behind him and steps past Soviet, taking a spot leaning against the side rails of the steps.

Soviet suddenly decides he needs another smoke. He whips out another cigarette from his pocket, lights it and brings it to his lips with an apprehensive sigh. It's not much of a sigh, but more of a shaky exhale.

They stand there for what Soviet feels is hours, but is only a few minutes. With each passing minute, the air grows colder and colder with tension. Soviet's entire body is cold. Too cold, even for a native from the motherland. The atmosphere around them is ice. The ice is thick and cloudy and if Soviet has to stand another moment longer with this murderous traitor who threatened the lives of his children and took advantage of his vulnerability he'll fucking scream—

"...That's not how you hold a cigarette?"

Reich's quiet, barely audible words slam into the ice with a pick. The pitch of his voice raises ever so slightly at the end, making his statement seem more like a question. Soviet pulls himself from his trance and realizes Reich, too, is shaking.

It takes a moment for Soviet to realize what Reich is referring to.

"Oh..." He says to himself. "Ahah."

Reich stares into the garden beside the edge of the large house. His expression his unreadable to the untrained eye, but Soviet knows this man more than most do. Reich is nervous.

"You're right. That's not how you hold a cigarette," Soviet manages to say without stumbling over his words. His brain sizzles inside of his skull as it fries itself.

Reich nods, his gaze traveling all over the porch except for on Soviet. He rummages in his pocket, only to sigh. "I... I left my lighter behind. Could I borrow yours?"

Soviet tries to control his trembling as he reaches into his pocket to retrieve his lighter, but to little avail. His hands shake when he hands the lighter to the German.

Reich quickly lights his cig and returns the lighter to its owner. Soviet takes it, his fingers curling around the plastic for a moment as he realizes he let Reich use his lighter like he would've seventy years ago.

"It's been an interesting night so far, hasn't it?" Reich says. Soviet unclenches his hand and puts his lighter away.

"...It sure has," He swallows what feels like a tennis ball in his throat.

Reich exhales smoke out his mouth, tapping his cigarette against the wood of the railing to shake off some ash collecting on the end. "Deutschland's grown up so much. I wonder who raised him while I was... Away."

Soviet stiffens, but relaxes when he notices there's no venom in Reich's voice. Reich's only asking a question.

"The Allies and I took turns with him. He was a good kid. Congrats," He says, this time finding it easier to speak.

"Thank you, but you're the one who helped raise him with me," Reich stares off into the distance. His cigarette hangs loosely between his middle and ring finger, forgotten.

Soviet doesn't know how to reply to that.

Reich turns around to leave, but turns back around to put out his cigarette. He then steps past Soviet and enters the house again without another word, the door creaking shut behind him.


	10. A Glass of Water 3

It's been only an hour or less since Germany took his seat on the other side of the room, and Poland already misses him.

Alone with only his deceased family members he hardly knows, a feeling inside Poland begins to stir.

Poland's heart beat slowly picks up speed as his eyes travel over his surroundings frantically. His foot taps against the tile floor as if he were jamming to music, but at a quicker, anxiety-induced pace. His chest tightens. It's hard to breathe.

It's happening again.

Poland squeezes his eyes shut as he jams the pronged end of his fork into his thigh, making a quiet squeak as it goes through the fabric and jabs at his flesh. The mild discomfort from the fork in his leg isn't enough to ground him back into reality. The fork clatters to the ground as he brings his hands up to his face, burying his head into his arms as he's forced to remember that night.

_______

Poland, young and not yet a country, hated parties. They were too crowded and loud.

The Polish teenager scurried away from the crowd dancing and partying in the large living room and took cover in the empty kitchen. Having escaped the ruckus, he sighed in relief and propped himself up against the counter. He tilted his head up at the ceiling with closed eyes.

"You don't like parties, either?"

Poland's eyes flew open to see a very tall man propped up against the counter beside him. He had to be a few years older than Poland. His eyes were little white beads and his mouth wasn't visible. His head was a long, striped rectangle.

Poland shook his head. "It's too loud out there."

"Ja. It gives me a headache," The stranger said. He turned to face the Pole. "Can I get you something to drink?"

Poland smiled. "Just a glass of water would be fine, thank you."

"No alcohol?"

"I'm eighteen," Poland blinked.

The man laughed. He hurried to fill a cup with water from a pitcher. "You look a few years older than that. Are you sure? It's not illegal if nobody knows,"

Poland took the glass carefully. He smiled. "Yeah, I'm sure. Thanks."

"What's your name?" The country leaned against the counter again.

"Poland."

"You're very cute, Poland,"

Poland nearly did a spit take. Some water dribbled down his chin and he wiped it off with his sleeve. "Like I said, I'm eighteen. I'm pretty sure you're almost thirty,"

The man pouted. "Aw, liebeling. Age is just a number."

"I'm not into age gaps, sorry."

He squinted. "There's no need to be like that..."

Poland decided to change the subject. "What's your name?"

"Reichtangle..." The other said. He winked. "Just call me Reich."

"...Reich," Admittedly, Poland liked the way it rolled off his tongue. His expression returned to a smile.

Reichtangle returned the expression, taking a sip from his own drink. The smell of alcohol wafted from the German's glass to Poland's nostrils, making Poland scrunch his nose up.

"Well, aren't you going to return the favor?"

The question caught Poland off guard. "What... What do you mean?" He asked.

Reichtangle clicked his tongue patronizingly. He set down his glass of whatever he was drinking. "I got you your water, so you should do something for me in return."

"I..." Poland's gaze flickered between his cup of water and Reichtangle's condescending glare. "What do you want me to do?"

"Come here."

Poland shuffled forward, stepping slightly closer to Reichtangle. He half-expected what was coming, but he didn't think Reichtangle would actually—

"Hey!" Poland yelped. "Let go of me!"

Reichtangle growled, his grip on Poland's wrists tightening. Poland's glass of water fell from his hold and hit the ground, sending water and little shards of glass all over the kitchen floor. In a flash, Poland brought his knee up to meet Reichtangle's groin.

"Du kleine Hündin!" Reichtangle shoved Poland against the counter, quickly restricting the younger's movements.

Poland squealed as his hips collided with granite. He was sure they'd be bruised tomorrow.

"Somebody help! He's—!"

___

Poland hurries out of the dining hall and into the kitchen, earning a few looks from the surrounding countries. As soon as he enters the empty kitchen, he props himself up against the counter and tilts his head up towards the ceiling with closed eyes. He shudders, biting his lip as he holds back tears.

"Polen?" A familiar voice comes from the far end of the kitchen. There's footsteps. "What's wrong?"

Poland's eyes fly open to see his boyfriend standing in front of him, holding a glass of water.

Poland immediately latches onto Germany and begins silently crying into the German's chest. Sobs wrack his body.

Germany carefully sets down the glass of water. He rubs soothing circles into Poland's back. "Shh... It's okay. You're safe. Nobody is going to hurt you,"

"I let him take advantage of me!"

Germany gently caresses Poland's face, wiping away his tears. "No, you didn't. Don't blame yourself for things you didn't do,"

Poland continues to cry. Germany takes Poland's hand and holds it in his own, gently squeezing the other's hand. He continues to caress Poland's face with his free hand.

"You didn't do anything wrong. It's not your fault..." Germany says softly. "You're safe. It's all okay,"

Poland sniffles, wiping his running nose. His eyes are puffy and red from crying. "No I'm not, not while he's here."


	11. Epic Father Son Moment

"Now that we've eaten and assembled... We must decide who stays where through the nights," Britain says from the front of the dining hall, standing on a chair.

The process for assigning countries their rooms was simple: whoever a country most associated with would end up sharing a room with said country. This meant close friends, family or couples would share a room. The selection process worked out smoothly. Eventually, everyone had figured out which room they were sleeping in. They still had a few hours of daylight left, so many countries took this opportunity to congregate, spend time with old friends and family and of course, drink.

Russia darts out the dining hall, away from the few other countries who stayed up late to drink and party. Although he's slightly tipsy himself, he's sober enough to remember where his room is located. He stops in front of the elevator and presses the up button with his index finger. There's a faint ding, signaling that an elevator is on the way to fetch him.

When the doors open, he swiftly steps aside to allow a short servant pushing a cart to hurry out. The servant is a little English woman with shoulder-length blonde hair. Her eyes are trained ahead and focused on whatever her task is, but as she runs by, her gaze flickers to Russia for a brief moment.

"Good evening," she nods to the country before rushing down the hall.

Russia says nothing, only nodding to her in awknowledgement as he enters the elevator. He punches in his room's floor button and leans his back against the wall. He yanks his flask from his pocket and takes a swig, numb to the way the vodka burns his throat. His eyes slip shut and he takes another gulp.

The elevator lets out a ding as the doors open again to reveal the long, empty hallway ahead. Russia lets the flask slip back into his pocket. He exits the elevator and walks down the long corridor before stopping in front of his room, key card in hand.

"Britain and his big house... More like a hotel," He slurs to himself, swiping the card into the slot and pushing the door open.

The room is empty with the exception of a king bed, a mini fridge, a few shelves, a dresser and a bathroom separated from the rest of the room by a door. Russia sets his bag on the ground by the dresser and collapses on the bed with a sigh.

"I'm not ready for this."

His words echo throughout the small room, bouncing off the walls and back into his eardrums, as if they came from someone else's mouth. As he laid in bed, a painful realization hit him.

Soviet would only be back in the world of the living this weekend. After that, Russia would lose him again forever. Thankfully, somebody enters the room before Russia can have a meltdown right then and there.

"Russia?"

Russia jolts up out of bed to face his father.

"Papa!"

And then just like hours prior, they've got their arms around each other and they're sobbing like idiots.

"My, my! Look how you've grown! You're almost as tall as me!" Soviet pulls back from the hug to admire his son. "Ты амбал!"

_(You're a big, strong man!)_

"Мы два сапога пара!" Russia beams.

_(Russian idiom, English equivalent is: "We're cut from the same cloth!")_

Soviet stands there for a moment, studying Russia. "...I noticed that you and your siblings have new flags," he finally says.

"Oh, yeah! After... After you left, our flags changed," Russia explains, stumbling over his words a bit.

"And how have things been since I've gone?"

Russia hesitates. He smiles, but Soviet notices his expression falter. "It's been... Different. But we manage,"

"How have _you_ been, Russia? I'm not talking about your siblings,"

Russia opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again.

"Not so well, I've heard," Soviet says for him.

Russia's eyes widen. "How do you know?"

"I'm your father. It's my job to know," Soviet motions for Russia to sit on the edge of the bed. "Come, sit with me,"

Russia sits on the bed next to his father, staring down at his feet and wringing his hands.

"I want to know about your arms,"


	12. Beat The Love

Germany pauses, his hand hovering over the scanner with his keycard. He turns around to engulf Poland into a hug, who sighs happily and returns the embrace.

How he loves his fiancé. The pair had been together through thick and thin, since the early eighties, and they continued to stay together even though Poland's homeland had gradually become a homophobic and unaccepting place.

"Will you be okay?" he asks, holding onto the older tightly.

Poland nods at his fiancé. "I'm staying with my grandfather tonight. I should be okay,"

With that, Poland leans forward to quickly peck Germany on the lips before hurrying off to his own room. The German man watches Poland leave, then turns back around to swipe the keycard over the scanner and duck into his room.

The interior of the room isn't unlike the inside of any hotel room, containing only the bare necessities of furniture to qualify as a living space. Germany flicks on the lights, illuminating the dim room.

"Hallo," Reich waves from where he sits on the bed. He's rummaging through his bag, which is set on his lap.

"Hallo, Papa," Germany says through a sigh, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the back of the armchair in the front of the room. He drags his suitcase in and lifts it onto the luggage rack beside the bed, grunting with the effort.

"Heavy?"

"...No, I'm just weak," Germany finds himself barely able to spit the words out, his heart rate gradually picking up speed.

Germany didn't hate his father, and for some reason, that bothered him immensely. Shouldn't he want nothing to do with Third Reich? But he gave him life. He was his father.

"How has life been treating you?"

"Uhm..." Germany breaks into nervous tears and begins to shake. "Uh... Ah—,"

"Oh, dear," Reich stands from his seat and walks over to the young man. He cups his cheek with his hand, tilting his head to look Germany in the eye. He gently caresses Germany's cheek with his free hand. "What's wrong?"

"Get away from me," Germany whispers.

"What's wrong?" Reich repeats, his clutch on Germany's face tightening.

"Nothing!" Germany shoves the dead man away, hot tears spilling down his cheeks. "Don't touch me!"

"I am your father and you will not speak to me that way!" Reich seethes. He grabs Germany's shoulder, his nails digging into his shirt.

"I am your son and you will not touch me that way!" Germany shoves Reich away again.

"I just want to know what's wrong!"

"What the fuck do you think is wrong, Papa? I'm reuniting with the man who used to beat me!"

 _"I never beat you!"_ Reich shouts in German, his tone even more harsh and abrasive. "You're making that up!"

Germany turns back to his luggage, deciding he was done arguing. He bites back another sob, fighting desperately not to cry any more.

"Don't you ignore me!" Reich wraps his arms around Germany, yanking him away from his suitcase.

Germany stumbles and falls back against his father. He lets out a cry for help, but he's choking on his tears and can't form a coherent sentence.

"Shut up, shut up—!" Reich screams at him.  
____

Germany awakens with a start. He immediately shoots upright and pats the nightstand in search of his glasses. His fingers meet glass and he picks them up by the lenses, not caring whether he smudges them or not. The young man slips the glasses onto his face and leans over to get to his feet, only for a sudden wave of dizziness to wash over him. He falls back with a groan.

"Deutschland? Are you alright?"

Germany opens his eyes, having not realized he shut them, and he meets the dark silhouette of his father. He screams.

 _"Quiet!"_ Reich barks in their native language, slapping a hand over Germany's mouth. "I just want to know if you're alright!"

"Don't touch me!" Germany scrambles off the bed. He soon collapses to the floor, unable to stand upright on his own.

"What's wrong?!"

"Nightmare! I had a nightmare!"

"Why didn't you tell me first thing?! It would have been so much easier!"

"It was about you!"

"What about me?!"

Germany goes silent. Reich eyes him suspiciously.

"Deutschland, you can tell me. I won't be offended by a nightmare," he says, his voice surprisingly calm.

"You attacked me when I confronted you about... Uhm..."

"About what?"

Germany swallows what feels like a tennis ball in his throat. "...You beating me when I was a kid."

Reich's jaw drops. His eyebrows furrow into a single line. "I never beat you! You're making that up!"

"No, you did! I... I wasn't the son you wanted me to be, so you beat the love out of me..."

"Get the fuck out of this room."

Germany's eyes widen. "You can't kick me out!"

 _"Yes, I can,"_ Reich spits in German, his voice dripping wet with malice.

With that, Reich tosses Germany out the door and slams it in his face. Germany spends the rest of his night on the doorstep.


	13. Of Which America Is A Cunt

_Saturday morning._

"Don't you think that's a little immature, Joe?"

America looks over to face his boyfriend seated next to him on the couch. He raises an eyebrow. "What?"

The Philippines shrugs and stares down at his feet. "He's been dead for a while, you know. I'm sure he's better now."

"How could he possibly be better?" America snorts, turning away from Phil. "That fucking commie never did anyone any good."

The pair have been bickering about America's treatment towards the Soviet Union all morning. The Philippines, adamant on defending the Russian, insisted America make amends with Soviet. America couldn't disagree with him more.

 _"You're lucky I love you,"_ The Filipino says under his breath in his native tongue, crossing his arms.

"I hate him and everything he stands for."

"He stands for equal opportunity. I thought you were all about that?" the Philippines tilts his head. "The United States of America, Land of Opportunity,"

"...Communism is bad."

"I will neither agree nor disagree with that statement, but I will insist you at least talk to him," Phil insists.

"Fine! Fucking fine!" America gets out of his seat. "I'll talk to the commie! But when he wants world domination and economic ruin, don't come crying to me!"

"You can be so dramatic sometimes,"  
____________

Like America would've guessed, the Slav was smoking a cigar on the back porch, his arms crossed over the railing to support his weight on the aging wood. Cigar smoke floats through the air around his head, almost like a cloud.

"Hey, cunt," America seethes, taking a spot beside Soviet.

"That's no way to address a former global superpower," Soviet taps his cigar on the wood of the railing, bits of ash crumbling off the end and falling onto the fresh green lawn below.

"As a global superpower myself, I should be allowed to address former global superpowers however I want."

Soviet huffs more smoke into the air. "That attitude won't get you far, America."

"It's gotten me further than you've ever gotten," America props himself up against one of the brick columns that holds up the roof overhead. He folds his arms over his chest, eyeing Soviet irritably.

"I hope you didn't come out here just to insult me," The Russian man mutters, staring out at the rows of trees ahead.

"I didn't," America sighs. "I came to talk."

"About what?"

"...Nothing in particular."

The Soviet Union raises a bushy brow. "Is that so?"

"Yes."

"Go on."

"...Uhm, uh... How did you die?"

Soviet grimaces. "That's a little personal, don't you think, America?" he drags from his cigarette, then blows the smoke in America's direction. America coughs.

"Yeah, well, I don't care," The American manages to hack out between coughs.

"Why does it matter to you?"

America straightens his posture. "I dunno, small talk."

"You think talking about my death is small talk?"

"I... Yeah, I guess," America shrugs.

Soviet turns away from the American, taking in another huff of his cigarette. He stares out into the trees ahead. Their branches shake in the wind, waving like they're trying to catch Soviet's attention. "...Get out of my sight."


	14. It Goes Both Ways

Poland steps out of his room, leaving his still-sleeping grandfather to continue resting.

The once strong commonwealth, a man built tall and muscular, now walked with a cane and with a painful hunch in his back. His cognitive functions heavily declined before his death and Poland was pretty sure he had dementia. The Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth raised Poland throughout his younger years since Galicia was neglectful, however, once his decline began, it was more like Poland was taking care of the old man.

Poland approaches the elevator, but before he punches the button to go down, he changes his mind. He turns around and heads back down the hall to Germany's room.

"Niemcy?"

Germany lays on the floor, curled up in fetal position. His dark hair is a spiky mess and he's still wearing his glasses. Poland rushes to his side and gently shakes the German man's shoulder.

"Niemcy..." Poland says softly. Germany stirs.

"Hrgh?" he sits upright, rubbing his aching head.

"Why are you outside? Are you alright? What happened?" Poland immediately bombards him with questions, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.

Germany groans. "Hold on... Lemme wake up first."

They spend a few moments just sitting there. Poland wraps an arm around his fiancé, holding him tight as he runs his fingers through his messy hair.

"My father kicked me out," Germany finally says with a sigh.

"You can stay in my room. My grandfather won't mind," Poland reassures him, holding him tighter. "I don't think he has the capacity to mind, anyway."

"I'm fine. I'll ask Britain if I can switch rooms. I don't want to tread on you and your grandfather's toes," Germany clambers to his feet, gently prying himself from Poland's hold and clinging onto the wall. "Let's get to breakfast. I'm so hungry I could eat a horse."


	15. A Bloodbath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicide

The water is too hot.

Russia grimaces as he slips into the tub of agonizingly hot water, fully clothed. He settles in his seat, searching for a comfortable position to rest his body in. It takes a few moments, but eventually he adjusts to the temperature of the water.

A razor blade sits on the lip of the tub, fresh from the package. Its shiny silver seems to twinkle temptingly in the painfully bright light of the bathroom. On the bottom half, the razor reads, "Van der Hagen."

Russia's fingers struggle to lift the razor from the tub's lip. He nicks his finger in the process.

"Shit!" he drops the razor into the tub, abandoning it to shove his nicked index finger into his mouth and suck on it. Using his free hand, he presses down on the flat side of the razor and drags it up the wall of the tub, eventually bringing it back.

He stares at the thing in his hand. It's small, rectangular and obviously sharp, as proven by the small cut in his finger. For a moment, the knowledge of what he's about to do to himself leaves his mind and he just sits there, basking in the warmth of the water.

But then it comes back to him. He's about to kill himself.

Once the weekend ended, Russia and his siblings would be on their own again. This, Russia had decided a few minutes ago, meant Russia had to die. He couldn't take the idea of being alone again. Absolutely not.

So here he is, alone in one of Britain's bathrooms, clutching a razor in one hand as he tugs up his sleeve with his teeth.

Russia stares at his arm, eyeing all the half-healed cuts and old, pale scars. Some scars raised his skin, little rises in the flesh of his arm. He set the razor down and ran a finger over them. The urge to rip open some of his cuts suddenly surges, and he has to remind himself of what he's about to do.

Fuck it, may as well cut one last time, he thinks.

He rolls up the sleeve of his other arm, then picks up the razor again. He brings the corner of the razor to his skin, then brings it down with an abrupt slash. His skin comes apart, revealing the white of his flesh beneath, before quickly filling with blood. The red blood trickles down his arm before falling into the water below.

Russia wipes his arm with the back of his hand, then rinses his hand clean in the tub. That felt nice. Cathartic, even.

Finally, Russia stops fucking around and brings the razor to his other arm. He presses it into his wrist and imagines himself dragging it downwards towards his elbow. Up the train tracks, not over, he reminds himself.

And up the train tracks he goes. He lets out a pained gasp as his skin comes apart.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

Russia bites his lip and wills himself to continue. He presses down even harder and lets out a howl. It's agony. It stings. But he can't stop.

He pulls the razor away from his arm and opens his eyes he didn't realize he shut. He raises the blade and slashes into his arm to cut himself, over and over again. He mauls his arm.

At last, Russia's slashes cease and he lays back in the tub before falling unconscious.


End file.
